Hong Kong film: Rise of Prison Break

Having confessed everything he needed to, Zhang Wenjie took out two packs of cigarettes simply wrapped in oil paper from his prison uniform pocket and discreetly slipped them into the pocket of Robinson's hospital gown.

"It's homemade, tobacco smuggled in from outside, the taste is authentic. Smoke it sparingly, this stuff is precious in Stanley."

Zhang Wenjie's voice was low and casual, conveying a sense of concern.

Robinson touched the slightly thick oil paper package in his pocket, feeling the familiar sensation of the cigarette box under his fingertips.

He took out a cigarette, lit it with the still-burning butt, took a deep drag, and the rich, uniquely charred aroma instantly filled his lungs, making him squint his eyes.

"Heh... this thing is indeed rare."

Robinson exhaled a long plume of smoke, the grayish-white column of smoke rising slowly, temporarily obscuring his worldly-wise eyes, which now shone with a complex light.

Through those puffs of smoke, he seemed to see more clearly the gray or even black areas that Zhang Wenjie might be involved in behind those "quick money projects".

Risk and huge profits have always been twins.

He lowered his head, looking at the flickering flame between his fingers. The cigarette burned slowly and steadily, just like his passing time and life.

His cloudy old eyes were bloodshot, but more than that, they held a fierce determination to go all out.

"Screw what!" he muttered to himself, his voice low but resolute. "I'm practically half-buried in the ground, what do I care about these things? Liu Yaozu... you ungrateful bastard, once I get out of here... I'll definitely give you a good 'welcome'!"

Just as Robinson was squinting, lost in his thoughts of revenge and the numbing effects of tobacco, the heavy iron gate of the infirmary made a soft "click" as it unlocked.

The door was pushed open, and a figure walked in.

It's Wendi Qian.

He had a simple white bandage wrapped around his left arm, an injury he sustained when the crocodile man kicked him.

His face was somewhat pale, but his eyes remained sharp, displaying the vigilance and observational ability characteristic of a professional con artist.

He passed Zhang Wenjie, who was about to leave, at the narrow doorway.

Just as their shoulders were about to completely miss each other, Zhang Wenjie paused slightly and stopped.

He turned his head, his gaze landing on Qian Wendi's face with a mixture of casualness and scrutiny, as if he had just encountered a somewhat unfamiliar fellow inmate.

"Handsome guy," Zhang Wenjie said casually, as if greeting someone on the street, "What's your name?"

Qian Wendi's heart tightened slightly, but he immediately put on a respectful and flattered smile and bowed slightly: "Brother Jie, my name is Qian Wendi. Wen is the Wen of culture, and Di is the Di of enlightenment. I haven't been here long and I don't know the rules. I hope you will take good care of me in the future."

"Hmm, Qian Wendi... Wendi, nice name." Zhang Wenjie nodded, a seemingly friendly smile on his face. "My name is Zhang Wenjie. Let's smoke together sometime in Stanley."

At this moment, Ma Zhixiong, who followed Qian Wendi in, urged him impatiently. He was carrying a police baton and used the tip of the baton to gently nudge the area near the injury on Qian Wendi's back, while cursing.

"Hey! New guy, what are you dawdling for? Do you think Stanley is your personal nightclub? Get back inside now! We have a ton of stuff to do, the toilets are bursting and nobody's unclogged!"

Qian Wendi winced as he was being pushed, but dared not retaliate. He quickly nodded to Zhang Wenjie again and strode into the infirmary.

Zhang Wenjie glanced at Ma Zhixiong, who immediately gave him a fawning smile that also carried a hint of "business as business."

Zhang Wenjie didn't say anything more, withdrew his gaze, turned around, and left the infirmary without looking back.

The necessary gestures and signals have been made.

Now, it's time to go back and have a proper "meeting" with those "old friends" in Warehouse No. 1.

Stanley Prison, Warehouse No. 1.

Unlike the usual hustle and bustle, filled with the raw energy (or chaos) of the lower classes, today Warehouse No. 1 is permeated with a repressive, oppressive atmosphere, as if a storm is brewing.

The warehouse was dimly lit, with only a few incandescent lamps embedded high in the walls and covered with wire mesh emitting a pale light.

The air was filled with the smells of sweat, feet, and mildew, along with an unusually strong tobacco odor.

Between the iron bunk beds, shadowy figures moved about, many sitting or standing silently, their eyes darting around, each lost in their own thoughts, seemingly waiting for something.

The Hung Hing gang, who had previously reigned supreme and were invincible in the warehouse, were now gathered in the inner part of the warehouse, forming a circle around Da Mi's best lower bunk.

There were seven or eight people, all with unfriendly expressions, each with a cigarette dangling from their mouth, constantly puffing out smoke.

The dense smoke from the cheap cigarettes gathered and rose above their heads, forming a grayish-white "cloud".

It almost completely obscured their figures and expressions, leaving only the faint crimson glow of the cigarette butts flickering in the smoke, like the wary eyes of a lurking wild beast.

Big Mimi, her face gloomy, lay half-reclined on his bed, her back against the dirty wall.

His right leg, which was in a heavy cast and splinted, was awkwardly placed on the edge of the bed.

He took a deep drag of his cigarette, letting the pungent smoke burn in his lungs, before slowly exhaling, his voice hoarse and ruthless: "The 'tools' I told you to prepare... are they all ready?"

From within the smoke, a man with a scar on his face immediately responded, his voice tinged with suppressed excitement: "Big Brother Mimi, don't worry! Sharpened toothbrush handles, iron bars from the bed frame, and even a small saw blade smuggled back from the factory... everything's ready, hidden in the usual spot!"

Another voice followed, eager to join in: "The weapons are all divided up, we're just waiting for that bastard Zhang Wenjie to come back! The moment he steps through the warehouse door, we'll swarm him and hack him to death... no, hack him to death with all our might! Let's see if he can still be so arrogant!"

Da Mi hummed in agreement, but her gaze went beyond the smoke and landed on a figure huddled in the corner—it was Daliqi.

Ever since Zhang Wenjie crippled his martial arts with two kicks, Daliqi has become completely listless, his face ashen, his eyes gloomy, and he often hides alone in a corner, exuding an aura of resentment and weakness.

"Daliqi," Da Mi said, her voice devoid of emotion, "you're still alive? I thought you were crippled long ago."

Daliqi slowly raised his head. His once fleshy face now only showed deep resentment and a sickly pallor.

He grinned, uttering a soft, unpleasant sound, as if his vocal cords were damaged: "Zhang Wenjie... isn't dead yet, how could I... bear to die first?"